


Leverage

by Trojie



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha have been stood down for the time being. They have to make their own entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leverage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineptshieldmaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/gifts).



If there's one thing Clint and Natasha have in common, it's that they both hate being cooped up.

Living in Stark Tower isn't exactly like being in prison, but they're both going sort of stir-crazy. Even with Captain America, Iron Man, and the Hulk around looking colourful and flashy, enough TV cameras picked up Black Widow and Hawkeye during the Chitauri crisis that S.H.I.E.L.D. have ordered them to lay low for a while, until their images fade out of everyone's memories a bit. Natasha's growing her hair out again to hasten that along, and Clint likes the way it falls around her jawline, coming out of the crisp cut she had it in before. 

Being officially stood-down for the duration means they have to make their own entertainment.

Natasha leads Clint, walking backwards, to an armchair; broad, overstuffed, on castors but with protectors underneath. It won't roll, and it'll hold both of them. Clint can't help that he thinks that at the same time as he starts to get interested in the way her blouse is half-unbuttoned and how she's looking at him like he's something she wants.

'How do you wanna play this?' he asks, like it's a mission. His voice is a little hoarser than he'd like this early on. God, but she gets to him. She lets herself fold back into the chair, and looks up at him with her little quiet smile. 

'You think you can take me down, Barton?' she asks, and stretches out into the enormous chair like she's about to coil up and attack. 

The true answer is no, not hand-to-hand, but that's the wrong answer. Clint grins, can't help it, and makes his play. The only real advantage he has over her is weight, provided he doesn't give her leverage, so while she's got her arms outstretched he bulls in and gets her up against the back of the chair, his knee sliding between her thighs, digging into the cushion and almost lifting her up. He gets hold of her wrists as well, and as soon as he does it he remembers every time she's ever let him get a hold and then used it against him, slammed him into the mats when they've been sparring, and almost curses himself for giving her an opening, but she lets him do it, curves into him even. 

It's got to be a trap, right? 

He'd be lying if he said that didn't turn him on.

'You've got your game face on,' she whispers, and snaps one hand free so that she can trace his brow with her fingers. 'Come on, show me what you got.' She's smiling wickedly, and it shoots straight to Clint's libido. He takes hold of her hand again, gathers the other one up too, and pushes both of them until he can hold them both behind her head, on the back of the chair, and shoves further forward, so that she's riding his knee. She squirms down against him, her skirt wrinkling as it pushes up her thighs. 

'Take it if you want it,' he says, kind of glorying in the danger of having Black Widow in his arms, and shoves up against her even harder, pushes even further into her space. She makes a tiny little noise and flexes her arms, then her whole body, rolling herself against his thigh. 

She closes her eyes and sighs as she grinds on him. 'Don't worry,' she says throatily. 'I will.'

Her knee is touching him, the sheer fabric of her stocking catching and snagging on the zip on his jeans, and amongst all the other things about Natasha that shouldn't turn Clint on but do, is the fact that she knows he likes a sharp-dressed woman, and that she's prepared to ruin a perfectly good set of nylons in order to make a point to him about that. 

As he looks down, spellbound, she drives her knee up just that bit harder into his groin, firm enough to give him the friction he craves, strong enough to start that tickle of very male fear in the back of his head, hard enough to start her stockings laddering. He bites his lip. 

'Hey Barton,' she says, hot between his legs. He'd swear if he didn't know better that he could feel how wet she is even through all the layers between them, but that's impossible - it's just in the way she tosses her head and smiles at him and fights his grip on her. 'Hey, you doing okay up there?'

She's working him now, thighs squeezing as she pushes herself against him over and over, her knee with its sleek black stocking ripping further and further as she gasps and gives it to him, just enough pressure, just enough to make his eyes roll back, just enough to make him mutter, 'Doing fine,' and make her smirk.

He's not holding her down anymore, not really. He's holding on. The rip in her knee is huge and gaping now, still caught on his zip, showing an ivory-white slash of skin with a tiny red scrape on it, and he can't take his eyes off it. 

'You should kiss that better later,' she says, and Clint bites his lip again. 'Come on, eyes up here, eyes on me.'

He does as he's told, fingers clenching around her wrists reflexively as she starts to struggle harder. Clint can't tell who's riding who anymore. He's leaning closer in, his hips are working down against the resistance she's giving him without any instruction from him at all, and he wants to kiss her very, very badly, but isn't sure if she'll let him. 

He's going to come soon, but that wasn't in his plan. He manages to get one hand around both of her wrists and snake the other down to clutch at the small of her back. It's damp, hot with her sweat, and as he slides his fingers along the places she curves he comes across something else, something smooth and hard and warm like it's an actual part of her body. 

'Ah-ah,' she says, but she shivers as he moves the knife a little in its sheath, snug against her skin. 'Don't play with things you can't handle, Barton.' 

'Too late,' he says, still tweaking at the knife's grip, playing with it through the cloth of her dress, trying to concentrate on anything other than the fact that he's this close to coming in his pants because of Natasha's knee. That's all, just her knee, and the way she stares at him and spreads herself out for him and practically shouts that he can't do anything to her that she doesn't want him to. 'Don't you trust me with your blades?' he asks, drawing it out a little further just because he can. It makes her twitch, it makes her teeth catch her bottom lip and her eyes narrow, and it's like he finally found a way to touch her somewhere vulnerable. 

That's what does it; she gasps for him and pushes up to him again as he plays with her knife, and all he gets to confirm how far gone she is is a bit-back moan and a shudder. 

He makes the mistake of burying his face in her hair and trying to savour the moment. 

The next thing he knows, he's flat on his back on the floor and she's shoved his pants down around his thighs, is riding him properly, soaking through her underwear, through his too, and she reaches behind herself and unzips the dress to get at her knife. 

She puts it on his chest, steel over his sternum, and holds it there. 

'I trust you, Barton,' she says, twisting and wrenching herself against him. 'I thought you knew that.' 

She holds him down as he shakes to pieces against her, one arm braced beside his head as she kisses him, and the other hand splayed over where she's got her knife to his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I think, for Clint and Natasha, trust is a lot more important than love. A lot harder to earn, for a start.


End file.
